Breathe Easy (Sequel to I Am Sher-Locked Up)
by notan8footpython
Summary: Sequel to "I Am Sher-Locked Up" Sherlock and John navigate recovery and test the waters of their newfound relationship, and Sherlock will have to learn to let go of the darkness he clutches so close to him. ***TW: self harm, eating disorders, suicide, etc. All the stuff that was in my last book*** M to be safe, it's more of a T tho
1. Chapter 1 - Again

_**A/N: Hey guys, it's Hannah with the sequel to I Am Sher-Locked Up! thank you guys so much for getting me this far, love you guys! Enjoy**_

 _ **-Hannah**_

 _Sherlock_

Things were so different now.

They were drastically different, but somehow all the same. Every day he and John interview potential clients, almost every day they are running the streets of London, hand in hand, chasing taxis and criminals and running from the boredom that threatened to overtake the detective.

But when they got home, when no one could see, things changed. Instead of sitting in their respective chairs, they would cuddle up on the couch-Sherlock usually in some wildly uncomfortable position and insisting he was fine-and John would drink tea and absentmindedly fiddle with his boyfriend's curly dark locks. They would chat, Sherlock mumbling incoherently as he slipped into sleep, his neck aching in the morning as he realized John had stayed by his side the entire night. A good morning kiss was to be expected, and then the normal started once more. It was an exhausting whiplash effect that Sherlock thrived on.

But some things never change, no matter the circumstance.

Sherlock had just finished having breakfast with John, their hands interlocking on top of the table as Sherlock nibbled on his toast that he never finished.

And now he was in the bathroom, blood running down his arms in a sticky crimson river.

He doesn't even know why he's still doing it. He's not particularly anguished at the moment, and his heart was still buzzing in his chest as a result of the slow kiss they had shared after breakfast, the taste of John's black coffee still on his tastebuds.

So why is he here, once again, breaking promises with every slash of the blade?

"Habit, I suppose," Sherlock murmurs as he washes the blood down the sink in an orangey stream. He bandages his arms and walks out of the bathroom.

John is standing right outside the bathroom door, stumbling back when Sherlock opens the door in his face.

The detective narrows his eyes, "What were you doing?"

John gives Sherlock a look. "You know what. I'm supposed to wait by the bathroom every time you go within an hour of eating."

The taller man inhales through his nose, annoyed. "I hardly ate anything, how am I-"

"Rules are rules, mate." John states definitively, giving Sherlock an irritating fake smile.

"If I kiss you, will you stop making that horrific face?" Sherlock says with a smile, trying to distract John.

John rolls his eyes, "This is my face. I'm not making any faces, Sherl."

Sherlock pretends to consider, making a fake frown. "Oh really? I guess it's no use trying then-"

"Come here, you stupid git," John laughs, stretching up and pulling Sherlock down to his level, kissing the man gently.

Sherlock kisses back, of course, but he can't stop the little arrow of guilt niggling at him.

The detective cups the side of his flatmate's face, one hand resting on the back of his neck. John grasps Sherlock's left wrist-dangerously close to discovering the new cuts made moments before-and Sherlock exhales slightly in pain, but hopes John doesn't notice.

"Okay, I think I have to get to work..." John murmurs into his boyrfriend's lips, but makes no move to leave.

Sherlock casually snakes his arm back to his side, clutching his sleeve cuffs. "Yeah, you'd better...wouldn't want to get you fired..."

John sighs, drawing back. "One day I'd like to come into some money and stop working. Buy a nice house, not an apartment. It could be ours. Just yours and mine together. It would be really nice."

Sherlock chuckles softly, "I think I speak for both of us when I say London is my home."

John laughs, shaking his head, "Yeah, I think you're right. I don't think I could ever leave Baker Street even if I wanted to."

John's face turns serious and Sherlock's heart stalls.

"Hey, just in case you've forgotten, I'm checking today. Your wrists. Legs. Wherever you usually...do..it." John says, trailing off as he looks at Sherlock's slightly puffier left sleeve. Sherlock thanks the gods that John wasn't observant enough to figure most things out.

Sherlock stiffens as the realization hits him. Fuck! How could he have forgotten today was check day?! He might have been able to disguise the cuts with makeup or something if they were several days old, but he knew there was no way to cover up the fresh, deep ones that itched on his forearm as he panicked.

He nods, trying his hardest not to let his expression betray him.

John looks at him skeptically, biting his cheek and cocking his head in a way that made Sherlock's insides feel funny.

"You do know there's an alternative to this, right?" He says slowly, as if he was presenting an obvious option that Sherlock had elected to ignore.

The detective's heart jackrabbits in relief, "Really? What is it?"

"You come forward and tell me without me having to harangue you."

Sherlock snorted, trying to make light of the situation, "Well that's not going to happen."

John's face takes on a pained expression, his eyebrows creasing adorably.

"Sherlock..."

"I'm joking, John. Try not to choke on the stick shoved up your arse." Sherlock says, a little more coldly than he meant to.

"Sherlock, is there something you're not telling me? You're being more of an arse than usual." John says, failing to conceal the hurt in his eyes.

Sherlock takes a breath, teetering on the edge of indecision. John was going to find out tonight anyway, but there was the matter of pride that Sherlock had too much of.

"Never mind. I'm just going to check now, okay? Roll up your sleeves, mate." John says certainly, as if he knew Sherlock would obey.

"No." Sherlock answers definitivley. "I'll let you tonight. That wasn't the deal."

John frowns, and then unexpectedly shoots his arm out and grabs Sherlock's forearm and squeezes hard, earning a grunt of pain from the detective.

"Just what I thought. Sherlock, what are we going to do?" John says plaintively.

"That was a dirty trick, John. Don't ever do that again." Sherlock mutters, glaring at his boyfriend.

John scoffs and looks off the the side, shaking his head in disbelief. "Sherlock, if you hadn't cut yourself in the first place then I wouldn't have to do this. Don't act like it's my fault you do a shitty job of concealing how hurt you are. We need trust, Sherl. That's the number one thing of any relationship, and we've been scrimping along without it, but we can't go on like this. How long ago did you cut?"

Sherlock looks down, his ears burning. "Approximately seven minutes ago."

John's mouth parts in disbelief, his eyes shining, sending another arrow of guilt through the detective.

"Christ, Sherlock..." he whispers, staring at the ground in defeat.

Sherlock's face burns with shame, but is determined to keep up his cocky, arrogant façade. "Oh, do get over it John, I'm not dead so I think you should be grateful."

John jerks his head up, his eyes turned to ice, "I should be grateful? Grateful you're not fucking dead?!"

Sherlock realizes his mistake and tries to backpedal, but John balls up his fist and looks as if he is about to swing, so Sherlock falls silent, readying himself for a blow.

"God, Sherl, if I didn't love you so much I'd have a go at you right now." John says through clenched teeth, a muscle in his cheek jumping.

"Sherlock, I am forever grateful you're not dead. Ever since the Fall, I've said a prayer of gratefulness every day that you're not dead, and ever since you tried to kill yourself I've been praying you won't be taken from me ever again. But I'm never going to settle for just 'not dead'. I need you. I need you to be okay. Please promise me. Promise me you'll at least attempt to talk to me before you mark your beautiful self up." John says shakily, his breathing uneven and his eyes watering with tears unshed.

Sherlock nods, unsure of himself. No one had even come close to caring to him like John did, and the lack of experience in the department left Sherlock more confused than he felt he had any right to be.

"I promise I will try." Sherlock amends, his voice tight and his breathing shallow.

John sighs with relief, running a hand through his greying hair. "Okay. That's good enough for now. Christ, I really am running late," he mumbles, glancing at his watch. "I'll be checking the severity of the wounds later, Sherl, I have to go now. I'm going to ask Mrs. Hudson to keep an eye on you-don't argue with me, Sherlock, not after what you've just done," he says sternly when Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, "-so just...be good, okay?"

Sherlock's mouth twitches and he rolls his eyes, "Yes, Daddy." He says mockingly, then his face freezes when he realizes the implications.

John's mouth parts, but he ignores it for Sherlock's sake.

"Okay, well...I love you, okay?" John says, stretching up on tiptoe to kiss the taller man gently.

"I love you too, John."


	2. Chapter 2 - Staying Strong

_Sherlock_

"For cripe's sake, Sherlock, are you ready or not? We've got plans, mate."

John's voice rings through the flat, a sound that Sherlock has come to love. They were supposed to go out to eat, the transparency of John's intentions irritating the detective. He had found a packet in John's desk that had information about dealing with eating disorders, and one of the tips was to go out on a fun trip that involved food, but did not revolve around it.

"Keep your pants on, John, I'm looking for my phone," Sherlock says irritably, trying to hide the scale that he had been tampering with. He heard Jonn's impatient footsteps and just chucked it under their bed, making a mental note to deal with it later.

"Hello, beautiful," John says as Sherlock whirls to face him. "Ready to go?"

Sherlock's cheek twitches with irritation; he quite hated nicknames, especially ones that weren't true. But he loved John, so he was willing to endure for his sake.

Sherlock smiles easily, and in the back of his mind it occurs to him that he is scarily good at pretending he's okay.

"Don't suppose you'll tell me where we're going?" Sherlock says, knowing the answer before he spoke.

"Nope. It's a surprise." John says, a grin on his face.

"Wonderful," Sherlock says sulkily.

"Sherl, mate, maybe if you weren't so sarcastic you'd have more friends," John mutters, a smile betraying him.

"I have you, and that's enough." Sherlock's mouth turns up a little as he says this.

John turns around suddenly, pulling the detective into a long, desperate kiss that left Sherlock dazed.

"Any particular reason for that gem of a kiss?" Sherlock says breathlessly.

"I just want you to know how much I love you." John says wistfully.

Sherlock nods, suddenly trepidatious.

"Well, we better get going. You're really going to like where I'm bringing you." John says.

***

 _John_

John wanted nothing more than for Sherlock to be okay. Unfortunately, old habits die hard.

They had gone to ride the London Eye, which Sherlock had never been on. They managed to get a car all to themselves, and let's just say John had no doubt that Sherlock loved him.

But now they were seated in a booth in a local restaurant, and locked in a battle of wills.

"Sherlock. You've got to eat, love." John says, hating how pleading his voice came out.

Sherlock says nothing, staring at the untouched fruit salad he had ordered.

"It's fruit, Sherl. I'm not asking you to eat a disgustingly American cheeseburger."

Sherlock's mouth twitches in what could be a smile, but remains silent.

"How about this: every bite you eat, I'll give you a kiss. Sound fair?" John says, his mouth turning up at the corner in a ghost of a smile.

"Okay." Sherlock finally says, but doesn't move.

"You've got to pick up the fork, mate. I'm sure your parents taught you how to use one." John jokes, hoping to lighten the mood some.

Sherlock glares at John, but picks up his fork and spears a pineapple chunk, bringing it towards his mouth and chewing slowly.

"All right, that's one. Next time a bigger bite would be better."

"I'm trying, John. Let me be." Sherlock says quietly.

John feels a pang of guilt, but says nothing.

Everntually, the fruit salad has been eaten and John promised to pay Sherlock for his troubles when they got home.

Later, when both men were curled up in the two twin sized beds they shoved together, John turns over to look Sherlock in the eye.

"Hey, Sherl..." He whispers softly, trying to convey his emotions through his eyes.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock says sleepily, his eyelids drooping.

"I just want to say I'm really proud of you today. I know it's hard, and I know you don't want to, but I think you really have a shot at getting better. I love you. Always remember that." John says, reaching out to stroke Sherlock's cheek, the detective leaning into his touch.

"I love...I love you too...John..." Sherlock mumbles before he drops off into a deep sleep, the love of his life by his side.

***

 **A/N:**

 **Hey guys, I'm sorry the chapter was so short, I've just been really busy with school and such xD I hope you enjoyed it anyway, and more is yet to come! Thanks my dudes**

 **-Hannah**


	3. Chapter 3 - Cold Hearts

**A/N:**

 **So this chapter got fucked up a bit, and I haven't noticed till now, so I'm fixing it, sorry!**

 **-Hannah**

 _John_

John paces the flat, sick with worry. Sherlock had left two hours ago after a particularly loud argument about those set of scales Sherlock tampered with.

" _Am I the only one who wants you to get better, Sherlock? Because it seems a little that way right now!" John yelled, running his hands through his graying hair and fighting the lump in his throat._

 _"Of course you are John, it's not like I'm trying or anything. It's not like I'm swallowing every bite you shove in my face, it's not like I've been clean for two weeks, it's certainly nothing to do with the fact that I haven't once thrown up in a week, no, none of that mean anything at all!" The detective shouts at equal volume to John, his eyes sparking with anger as he waved his skinny arms, slightly swaying at the motion._

 _"Look at you, Sherlock, you can barely stand up straight! What the hell am I supposed to do? I'm not trained for this, I don't have all the answers, so what the FUCK can I do? I'll do it, I'll do anything for you, but I don't know what to do! Help me, Sherl. Help me help you." John finishes quietly, lowering his head so his boyfriend couldn't see his tears._

John can't stand the thought of something happening to Sherlock. He had asked if Mrs. Hudson knew what to do, and she said just to wait for him to come back. John checks his watch: 6:47pm. Sherlock had been gone since 4:30 and hasn't answered any of John's calls or texts, not even to say that he wasn't dead or dying at the moment.

John makes a split second decision and grabs his coat and strides out the door, his face set in stone as he searches for his friend.

 _Sherlock_

God, it's cold.

Sherlock had forgotten to grab his coat after he argument with John and was paying sorely for it.

The fact that he had next to no body fat wasn't helping either, but the doorway he sat in helped shelter him from the -12° windchill at least.

The argument plays over and over in Sherlock's head, his eyes screwing shut as he tried to block out the voices bouncing around in his head.

" _God, I wish I was dead." Sherlock muttered, looking away from John's gaze as he blinked away tears._

 _John was speechless for a moment, but regained composure, "Really...? Even now, even after us...? Why?"_

 _Sherlock's nostrils flared with fury at this statement, "Yes, John, even now! Years and years and YEARS of emotional trauma and pain and depression don't just go away because I met a guy! It's not your job to fix me with a few kisses and a loving hand. I love you, I really do, but you can't just expect me to just recover in a few weeks just because you're stupid enough to fall for me! I still wish I was dead, I still itch to cut again, I still hate the taste of food and I still have depression despite you swooping in and saving me from myself! Why can't you SEE that?!"_

 _John takes a step back, visibly hurt and tearful. Sherlock feels a pang of guilt in his gut, and runs out the door._

"I wonder if he's looking for me..." Sherlock wondered aloud. He knew that John would tear apart the world to find him, but there was that nagging voice in his head trying to convince him that he wasn't worth it.

The detective's head started to droop, fatigue and the cold getting the better of him. Without realizing it, Sherlock fell asleep in the snow.

 _Mycroft_

"Are you sure he's not here?" John asked pleadingly to Mycroft.

"Yes, I'm sure! I don't know where he is, but he's not here." Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose with irritation and guilt. How could he not know where is own brother was?

"Bull," John states, "I know you keep tabs on him. You know where everyone is."

Mycroft sighed. "John. I stopped monitoring him a while back. I thought that now that he was with you, things would get better. Obviously I'm wrong, but that doesn't change the fact that I have no earthly clue where he went."

John runs his hands through his hair for the millionth time today, as if his follicles held the answer to his problem. "Well...I guess we'll just have to do it the old fashioned way and go out and look."

 _Sherlock_

" _I can't believe you."_

 _John looked at the ceiling, trying to collect himself._

 _Sherlock stayed silent, barely breathing._

 _"Again? How'd you do it? I've locked up every sharp thing in this flat and you're still cutting?"_

 _"Just because you make it harder for me to injure myself doesn't mean I won't. I just have to be more...creative," Sherlock said quietly._

 _"What about this: instead of hiding yourself away and marking up your body, you come to me and we can work it out together? I'm not saying it'll fix things forever, but it'll be one less scar on your body for every time you want to break." John said gently, trying not to let his boyfriend know how upset he was._

 _"I...I'm trying, John. Usually I don't even think before I cut, but now all I think of is you. Every time I hurt myself I think of you. How I'm breaking your heart, how you don't deserve the hell im putting you through, how useless I am and how much stress I'm putting on you. I'm sorry. I'm still not good enough." Sherlock inhaled deeply, putting his face in his piano hands._

 _"Can you at least come to me when you think of me? I don't care if you're mid-slice. I want you to come to me as soon as you realize you're hurting me at the same time you're hurting yourself. Please." John said, almost beggingly._

 _"Okay."_

Suddenly, Sherlock wakes with a start as he feels hands on his shoulders shaking him. He opens his eyes blearily and squinted at the two forms in front of him.

As his vision focused, he made out John and Mycroft crouching beside him, attacking him with a barrage of questions.

"Are you hurt?"

"God, it's freezing out, how long have you been out here?"

"Can you hear me at all?"

"Jesus, John, you're a doctor, try and see if he's oka-"

"I'm fine," Sherlock cuts them off, staggering to his feet only to collapse again, John doing his best to catch him, and Sherlock could see concern on his face at how light he was.

"I'm fine...I just fell asleep...sorry..." Sherlock mumbles, his mouth dry and cottony. He could barely feel his extremities.

"Come on, let's just get you home."

 _John_

John looks over at the couch where Sherlock lay, making sure he was still okay. A cup of hot tea sat on the coffe table in front of him, half empty.

John moved over to sit next to Sherlock, eliciting a grunt from Sherlock when he sat on his feet.

"You all right?" John asks quietly, stretching himself out so that he was pressed lengthwise against the detective.

Sherlock mumbles something, but was muffled by the pillow he had shoved his face into.

"What?" John asks, leaning closer.

"I'm sleeping," Sherlock said, lifting his head momentarily. "Just...just leave me be for a little while. I'm still cold."

"All right." John says, standing to get up before his boyfriend inturrupted,

"No. You stay. Just don't talk."

"Okay Sherl." John says with a smile, laying back down and pulling a blanket over them, John grunting in discomfort on the tiny couch.

"I'll just say this, and then I'll stop talking," John murmurs into Sherlock's ear, "no matter how far you run, no matter how many times you relapse, no matter how much you hate yourself, I will always love you, okay?"

"Okay John. Me too. I promise."

John couldn't have been happier.


	4. Chapter 4 - Hidden Scars

_Sherlock_

"What do you think we should do today?" John asks for the fourth time, lazily tracing hearts on Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock grunts noncommittaly before mumbling, "This is fine. I like doing this."

John had to agree. The two were cuddling in bed, watching the morning sun filter through the dust, turning the air alive with flecks of gold. Sherlock's head rests on the crook of John's neck, tickling his flatmate with his breaths. Sherlock 's hand sits on John's chest under his T-shirt, relishing the feeling of his heartbeat on his palm. He moves his hand to John's stomach, caressing his thumb over his boyfriend's skin.

"You sure you don't want a case or anything?" John asks, shifting uncomfortably as the detective's thumb ghosts over a patch of skin that was textured differently than the rest of him.

Sherlock is momentarily confused at his boyfriend's sudden discomfort until he feels his stomach again, making out raised lines crisscrossing his midsection.

"Sherlock-" John says, his voice slightly strained, sucking in his stomach and moving a few inches away so that the other man's hand doesn't touch him.

"John." Sherlock says, raising his head and looking he other man in the eye. John's gaze dropped as he pushed Sherlock's hand away from his stomach.

"Leave it be," John says, almost pleadingly.

"No," Sherlock says, his eyes narrowing. "What are those?"

John's face turns red with shame, refusing to answer.

Sherlock pulls the blankets down, his boyfriend protesting as he tried to keep the sheets up, but finally relenting as Sherlock yanked the blankets away and pushed up his shirt.

John inhales and covers his face with his hands as the detective stared at his stomach.

Thick white scars crisscross his stomach, some barely as thick as a pencil line and some that looked dangerously deep. They looked to be several months old, some as old as five years ago. Others looked as recent as a year ago. Sadness fills Sherlock, threatening to crush his ribcage, but is soon replaced by anger.

"When?"

John says nothing.

"When, John?" Sherlock says louder.

"When do you bloody think, Sherlock? What could possibly move me to do this?" John says, sitting up and pulling his shirt down, balling the fabric up in his fists.

"I don't know, that's why I ask-" Sherlock replies angrily before freezing in shock.

The Reichenbach Fall.

"John..." Sherlock says sorrowfully, momentarily consumed with guilt and self-hatred. "I didn't know..."

John scoffs, "You didn't know what? That your death would kill me too? That I didn't want to live, let alone take care of myself and keep myself well? You were too busy playing the hero and saving the world to realize what this did to me."

"That's not fair, John, I never thought-"

"You never thought that I cared about you? You never thought that I would resort to cutting myself to escape from the pain of losing you? Compared to what the Fall did to me, these scars are nothing, _nothing_ compared to losing you."

Sherlock is silent, emotions bubbling and broiling, too hot to sort out which was guilt and which was anger and which was sorrow.

"I'm sorry. You know I am."

John scoffs again, "I know you are. But I know you'd do it again, and sorry doesn't cut it."

"I don't know what you want me to say, John. It hurt me too, okay? How do you think it felt to watch you fall apart? How do you think it felt knowing that there was _nothing I could do to help you?"_

"Christ, Sherlock, don't do this. Don't you dare try to pin this on me. Don't you _dare_ try and tell me that my hurting myself was unjustified. You've been doing it for years because of how hurt you feel, and same goes for me. I stopped doing it, okay? I stopped cutting soon after you came back. I promise you I did." John says, his voice dropping in volume until that last part of what he said was whispered.

Sherlock inhaled through his nose and ran his hands through his ebony curls. "Fine. I'll let it go. I'm sorry, again. You know why I had to do it, and I know it wasn't fair for either of us. I'm glad you stopped. I'm glad you had more strength than I do."

"You're plenty strong, mate, you're just focusing your efforts on the wrong things." John says with a hint of a smile.

"How so?" Sherlock asks, confused.

"Well, I don't know, how else would you manage to hurt yourself for so many years when everyone was fighting to keep you from doing it? How else could you manage to do the things you do to yourself and still stay sane?"

Sherlock nods thoughtfully, chewing on the statement. He supposed John was right; he certainly hadn't thought of it that way until now.

"Now, I think we actually need to do something today, but afterwards we can do whatever you want." John says, changing the subject and smiling.

"Anything I want?" Sherlock says suggestively, sniggering when John's eyes flew wide.

"Yeah sure whatever mate." John laughs, looking down and shaking his head as his face filled with warmth.

Sherlock leans over and hesitantly kisses John's forehead, relishing the way his boyfriend shyly smiled as if it were the first time all over again.

And in a way, it was. 


	5. Chapter 5 - Getting Through

_Sherlock_

Sherlock tries not to scowl as he steps on the scale John borrowed from the hospital. It was a blind scale, with the box and reader connected by a cord held by John, meaning that the only person who could see his weight was John.

John looks at the reader, his expression unreadable. Sherlock has to bite the inside of his cheek hard to keep him from asking what the number was, but he winces when he chomps down on the skin, raw from being chewed on constantly.

"Well, all right then," John says, scribbling numbers into a notepad that he kept hidden from the detective.

"Can I..." Sherlock cringes at how desperate his voice sounds, "can I...see it? Please?"

John eyes Sherlock before scoffing and shaking his head, "No, of course not. I don't want you getting spun up over a few numbers portraying your relationship with gravity."

"So it's gone up, hasn't it?" Sherlock says snappily.

"I don't think I ever-"

"It has. Otherwise you would tell me. How much?" Sherlock asks, fully aware of how crazy he sounds.

"So what if you have, Sherly? That's a good thing, you know." John says exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"Well...yeah, I suppose, for you, but not for me." Sherlock grits his teeth, annoyed at himself for coming to pieces for a damn number.

"It is good for you. You were half dead when we started, Sherl, anything's better than that, mate." John says kindly, smiling the way he did when he was looking at the detective, sending a rush of affection through Sherlock despite the circumstances.

"I just don't want to do this anymore," Sherlock sighs defeatedly, then rushes to clarify as he sees the alarm on his boyfriend's face, "I mean, this whole recovery thing. I want to get better, I do, but I wish it were easier. I would love nothing more than to be able to snap my fingers and get better. Not all this drama with the scales and the wrist checking and having to wake you up in the middle of the night because I had a flashback."

John looks at Sherlock thoughtfully for a moment. "Well, yeah, that's all I want for you too. More than anything, I want you to be okay. But as you said before, 30 years of hating yourself and trying to destroy yourself isn't going to leave in a few weeks. You can do it. I know you can."

"And what if I can't?"

John shrugs, "If you can't, then I'll just work harder. Nothing will stop me from getting you help, Sherl. If I can't do it then I'll find someone who can. I love you, okay?"

Sherlock nods, processing. God, how he loved this man. Who else could put up with his mental state, the constant battle of wills and resolve over something as minute as an extra bite of toast or a quick flash of the wrist? Sherlock knew he was extraordinarily lucky to have John for himself.

 _But is he really yours? Does he love you, or does he see you as another's "patient", just someone to coddle and fix and send on their way without a second glance? Just another soul to pity, just another specimen to dissect and patch up and—  
_  
Sherlock grits his teeth, willing the voices to be silent. But what if they were right?

"Hey...John?" He asks hesitantly.

"Yeah?" John looks up from where he was putting away the scale, concern emerging from his gorgeous eyes.

"Do you...do you love me?" Sherlock asks, hating how small and uncertain he sounds. Like some schoolgirl waiting for an answer on his "do you love me? Check yes or no" note.

John laughs a little, his smile crinkling the corners of his hazel eyes in a way that made Sherlock want to kiss them.

"Well, yeah, I hope so, or this would be a little awkward." John jokes, but then turns serious when he sees Sherlock's expression. "Of course I love you, Sherly. Why do you ask?"

Sherlock takes a hesitant breath, unsure of how to proceed. This whole boyfriend thing was way too complicated for Sherlock's liking, but at the same time he thrived on it.

"Well...I don't know, it sounds silly, but...how could you love me? I haven't the faintest why someone such as yourself would fancy someone like me."

"Well, what is someone like you? There's no one like you, Sherl, no one quite as beautiful, no one quite as enticing as you. I fell in love with you. I fell in love with everything about you, mate. If you had an extra five hours I could explain it all to you, but I doubt I'd be able to get it all out. Whatever the voices may tell you, they are wrong. I love you, okay?"

Sherlock smiles warmly, soothed by his words but still anxious that he might be lying.

"Okay. I love you too."

***

 _John_

"How's the most beautiful man in the world today?" Sherlock says, gliding into the room and pressing a kiss to John's greying curls.

"I don't know Sherlock, how are you?" John says, not looking up from his newspaper.

"F-fine." Sherlock replies, his voice cracking as he straightens up, his cheeks stained red as he tries to hide the glow with his mug of tea.

John smiles warmly to himself. He could tell today would be a good day.

"So what are your plans for this evening, beautiful?" John says, somewhat teasingly, darkening the shade of red on his boyfriends face.

"I, um, well, I don't, well-" Sherlock squeaks out, adorably discombobulated.

"I'll take that as a 'I'm free, John, and I'll do whatever you'd like me to'" John laughs, reaching out and stroking Sherlock's hand.

"Sure! Sure..." Sherlock says, rushing back to his room.

***

 _ **~later that evening~  
**_

"John. John. John. John. John."

Sherlock was draped over John's shoulder as he worked on his computer, beating his head against his boyfriend's in time to his name being called.

John continues to ignore him until he can't resist, turning to kiss him on the cheek, earning a smile from the detective as he flops down on the couch, as his own face blushes.

"You said we'd do something tonight," Sherlock whines, and John catches a glimpse of the petulant younger brother he once was.

"We are, my impatient one, just relax a bit," John says with a smile, "I just have to make you wait so that if he evening falls flat then you'll still enjoy it because you had to wait."

"That's piss poor psychology, Watson." Sherlock grumbles, sliding lower on the couch, his gangly limbs splayed out like spider legs.

"Okay, I think we're ready," John says, making Sherlock look up at him with a silly half smile on his face.

"First, we need to watch the entirety of Lord of the Rings-you'll love Bilbo, I know you will-with snacks of your choice, of course, and then we can take a shower together-I heard that was fun, never tried it before myself, but we can try-and by then it'll be well past midnight so we can go to sleep satisfyingly exhausted."

"That would be lovely," Sherlock smiles, "just like you."

It's John's turn to blush, but he gets up and piles blankets and pillows on the ratty couch in the den and snuggled into Sherlock.

He feels fingers loop through his own as Sherlock shifts to lay he head on John's lap, the latter stroking and playing with the former's dark curls.

"Bilbo looks like someone I know, but I can't place it," Sherlock mumbles distractedly, leaning into John's touch.

"Just watch the movie, mate," John chides.

After the movie was over, the two strip down and enter the shower, steam enveloping them like a blanket as they press together, bathed in hot water and love.

John has to admit, showering with someone is much better than showering alone, even if there was no sex or anything suggestive happening.

John tries not to look at the scars decorating Sherlock's body, but he soon finds himself tracing the wounds, spanning from shoulder to mid knee, with a few on his calves.

"This would be a preferable alternative to wrist checking," Sherlock says, covering John's hand with his own spindly piano hands, in turn feeling John's scars on his stomach, a wistful look on his face.

"I could work with that," John murmurs, happy to see that his boyfriend's ribs were less visible, and traced his hip bones, sending a shudder through Sherlock.

The two sit in the shower and hold each other until the hot water runs cold.

Then they bundle into bed, each wearing the others sweatpants John's riding high on Sherlock's long legs, Sherlock's tangling around John's feet.

"I love you..." Sherlock mumbles as he drifts off to sleep, his head nestled into the crook of John's neck, tickling his neck with his exhales.

"I love you too, Sherlock." John says, eyelids heavy with sleep.

The two sleep peacefully through the night, each dreaming of he others lips. 


	6. Chapter 6 - The First Time

_Sherlock_

He sits on the edge of the bed, trembling.

He was gripped by a nightmare, one of the worst reccuring nightmares he gets. The other terrors, the sensation of falling; the walls of hospitals, tallies scratched into every surface; those he could handle.

But this one...

 _I am standing outside John's window. It's a year after the Fall, and he is staring_ _at the drawer with his gun in it. Blood soaks his shirt, the source of the bleeding unclear but nonetheless terrifying. I'm screaming, because I know what's going to happen. He's going to pick the gun up and kill himself._

 _He can't hear me, he can't see me, I'm not even there to him. He picks up the weapon, puts it to his head. He exhales once, twice, and I feel my vocal cords tearing becuase JOHN JOHN JOHN DON'T I SWEAR TO GOD I CAN'T DO THIS WITHOUT YOU PLEASE STOP JOHN STOP JOHN WATSON I LOVE Y—_

 _The gunshot wakes me up, and my skin is on fire_.

Sherlock always looks over to the form sleeping beside him, resisting the urge to feel his neck for a pulse, to bring an ear to his mouth, listening for deep, even breaths. His fingers itch for something sharp, something to take the mental pain away and morph it into physical pain. He needs to cut.

 _But do you?  
_  
Sherlock stiffens, all too used to voices in his head. But he relaxes after a moment. This was a voice he recognized. This was John's voice.

 _Answer me, Sherlock. Do you really need to?  
_  
"Yes." Sherlock breathes, careful not to wake the real John next to him.

 _Really?_ The voice chuckles a bit, ignoring Sherlock's irritated scoff.

 _You've got something better right next to you. Look.  
_  
He turns, puzzled. What did that mean? Drugs? John had taken those up.

 _No, gimp boy, John. He's right there. He can take the pain away, and not leave a mark on your body. Well, depending on how hard he kisses you.  
_  
Sherlock's face flushes at this, despite the fact that no one actually said that. He turns over, his hand wavering hesitantly over his boyfriend's smooth cheek, right over the worry lines that had recently creased his beautiful face.

 _Go on._ John's voice whispers into his right ear, making the detective shiver. _What's he gonna do? Be angry at you for trusting him?_

Sherlock brings his hand down to John's muscular shoulders and touches him lightly, his fingertips gracing the bare skin.

"J-John?" Sherlock says in a throaty whisper.

John stirs slightly, mumbling "It's okay, it's okay, s'okay..."

Sherlock smiles a bit. John wasn't even awake, but he was caring for him even in his sleep. Sherlock grips his shoulder more firmly, shaking slightly.

John's eyes fly open, his body tensing as he goes from 0 to 100 in a split second. "What...whassamatter? Sherlock..." his words slur with tiredness.

Sherlock shrinks back, wishing he had just left John to sleep so he can finally cut. "It's just me...are you awake?" Stupid question.

John turns over onto his side so he faces his boyfriend. Even in the dark, Sherlock is dazzled by the beauty of his soldier.

"Am now. What's the matter, love?" John says gently, his eyes soft and kind. He reaches out to Sherlock and grabs his hand, squeezing it reassuringly, grounding the detective.

"Just...nothing." Sherlock says, suddenly afraid to say anything that might worry John.

"Don't lie to me, Sherl. You woke me up, so something must be up. What is it? Another nightmare?"

Sherlock nods, his dark hair making a swishing sound against the pillow.

"Do you need to cut?"

Ah. The million dollar question. Sherlock briefly notes that John used the word "need" instead of "want", showing that it was more of an addiction instead of a pastime. Sherlock nods again, and John can feel his hand shaking within his own.

John brings Sherlock closer, pulling his by his elbow and waist, careful not to hurt his still-healing wrists. He wraps an arm over his waist and rests his hand on the detective's right shoulder blade, pressing his palm flat. He bring up his other arm to cup Sherlock's face, their entire bodies pressed up against each other. Sherlock melted into him, savoring the feeling of John's muscular stomach and the warmth soaking into his own stomach. Sherlock rested his head under John's chin, his breaths hot against his neck.

"Is this okay?" John asks quietly, stroking his boyfriend's dark curls, doing his best to still the terrors running rampant in that beautiful head of his.

Sherlock nods once more, not fully trusting his voice. This was better than okay. Slowly, slowly, the need to tear his skin open faded, replaced with the buzzing warmth emanating from John's body. His limbs and eyelids feel heavy with sleepiness, and all he had to do was listen to John's slow, reassuring breaths.

Right before John's breaths slowed into a sleeping rhythm, Sherlock speaks up, his voice cracking.

"John?"

John's starts a bit before answering, "Yeah? What's up?"

"How did you..." Sherlock's voice wavers. He wasn't sure how to word his question. "How did you stop?"

"Stop what, love?"

"You know what." He says irritably, but softens his voice, "Stop...cutting. How did you do that?"

John inhales deeply, opening his eyes and shifts so that the hand cupping Sherlock's face is propping him up on the pillow. Sherlock's cheek feels suddenly cold with the warmth of his hand gone.

"I was wondering when you'd ask that question," John comments, "and I suppose I don't really know."

Sherlock's cheek twitches in annoyance. How the hell could he not know?

"How? How'd you stop? You can't tell me you just up and quit." Sherlock says, his eyes desperate and searching John's face for some tell, an answer to the pain plaguing his life.

"I didn't up and quit. It took me a while. I first wanted to stop after you came back. I didn't feel right doing it when I had my world given back to me. And I knew you'd find out. As selfish as that sounds, I didn't want you to deduce me. So I stopped."

"Just like that?" Sherlock asks.

"No, not just like that. I stopped for a while, then relapsed, then clean for a while, then I relapsed again. I've been clean for about two year and a half years. I managed to stop soon after you came back. It wasn't easy, mind you, but I focused my efforts elsewhere. Taking care of you has kept me busy, and so has the cases. It is dangerous to be alone. Luckily, I'm not alone anymore." John says, his eyes crinkling at the corners and gazing lovingly down at Sherlock, making the detective feel warm inside his chest.

Sherlock nods again, turning this over in his mind. The way John said it, like it was so easy, like switching off a light. He's been at this for 30 years...surely it couldn't be that simple.

But what if it was? What if the answer was right in front of him, soft blonde eyelashes and worried skin? What if he didn't need to live like this anymore, what if he could be...happy? What then?

Sherlock supposed he knew what Nirvana meant by "I miss the comfort of being sad". He had been so sad for so long, he had forgotten what it felt like to not be sad, to not want to tear his skin open and and shoot up with drugs. When he wasn't sad, he was...empty.

"What are you thinking about?" John says, eyes still closed and breathing still deep.

"A lot of things," Sherlock whispers into the darkness.

"Good things or bad things?" John asks, his voice like liquid amber caressing the detective's mind, calming his racing thoughts.

Sherlock gave a noncommittal grunt, earning a soft, sleepy smile from his boyfriend.

"Go to sleep. Stop thinking, just for now. Listen," John says, pulling him closer, pressing his hand into the back of his head, pulling Sherlock's head close to his chest. Sherlock marvelled at how perfectly their bodies fit together, the curves and strength of John filling the edges and emptiness in Sherlock. He could hear his heart beating smoothly in his chest.

"You hear that?" John's voice was a deep rumble in his chest.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered.

"Good. Go to sleep."

And he did. 


End file.
